


words to live by

by potted_music



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Some Period-Typical Homophobia, sharing a cigarette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 16:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19136674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potted_music/pseuds/potted_music
Summary: That’s what’s so startling about Valera, Boris realizes. He cares, genuinely, honest-to-fucking-God cares.





	words to live by

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lafiametta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [слова, чтобы жить](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19726759) by [Krezh12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krezh12/pseuds/Krezh12)



> 1) It’s fanfiction based on the series, not RPS, specifically using the facts from the series that do deviate from history. No disrespect, etc.
> 
> 2) If Chernobyl (HBO) fanfiction isn't your cuppa, please remember that life’s too short and brutal to waste it on rage-reading and ranting about the content you don’t like. I sincerely recommend unsubscribing and reading the content that does make you happy instead. Let’s all act like civilized adults in charge of our own media consumption. Ta! <3
> 
> 3) English isn’t my first language, this is unbetaed and very hastily written.

“Well, I’m all out,” Valera says, shaking an empty cigarette pack to emphasize the point. “And I still have to go over all these readings. You?”

The stack of papers listing levels of radiation at various locations around the evacuation zone teeters precipitously. Damned if they aren’t stuck here till dawn yet again.

“One,” Boris says without having to pull the pack out of his breast pocket to check. “Wait, I’ll get you one.”

This late into the night and this close to the reactor, only one KGB officer of their assigned detail is on duty, at least that Boris can see. What is he even doing here? Making sure that they don’t abandon post and flee for the hills?

Catching his eye, he barks, "You. You have a cigarette?"

The man, so young that there are still pimples spotting his cheeks, shudders with the sudden realization of his visibility, then smiles and spreads his hands in a helpless gesture.

"Sorry boss, my wife's pregnant, and I promised her that while she's not allowed to smoke, I won't smoke either."

While the sentiment’s commendable, the result hardly is. Boris nods.

"Congratulations Lieutenant. Your son will be proud of your service."

The punk has the gall to salute him, but Boris closes the door on the sight of his smiling face. Despondency on Valera’s face as he pulls off his glasses and rubs at his eyes couldn’t be a starker contrast.

"They are sending fathers-to-be here. Do you think he will live to meet his child?"

That’s what’s so startling about Valera, Boris realizes. He cares, genuinely, honest-to-fucking-God cares. The place’s a shit show, they are signing equivalents of death warrants right, left and center, the region’s a graveyard to begin with, and he has the courage to care, even about a KGB agent who’d rat his ass out for a promotion. Men that care that much aren’t long for the world, not in the party line of work. Or maybe Valera doesn’t realize that the man he’s feeling sorry for is a KGB agent, Boris surmises. Either option is possible.

"At least he knocked someone up before this,” he says, heavily settling back into his chair. “Did you know the guys are fashioning lead shields for their balls?" 

That draws a laugh out of Valera, which fills Boris with unexpected pride. "No, I didn't. Well, I don't think our chances of, as you've so elegantly put it, knocking anyone up are all that good after this."

"What, do you often go around knocking women up?"

Another soft laugh. "No."

He’s been wondering privately if this quiet little scientist, with his mild manners and timid movements, was bent. There was this softness to him that made man wonder. But then, he knew this marine once, the most ruthless motherfucker you’ll ever see, who dropped his pants at the drop of the hat—shot himself before it came to a tribunal—so what does Boris know, really.

"Figured." He rifles through the drawers, hoping for a spare pack, then digs in the ashtray with an end of his pen, hoping there might be some cigarettes that are not smoked down to the filter. No such luck. "They are sending us to die in this shithole, and they cannot even bring us enough cigarettes."

"You won't die without a cigarette till morning," Valera says in the reasonable tone that makes Boris want to grab him by the scruff of his neck and shake.

"No I won't, but you won't enjoy my company either".

Valera pulls the stack of papers closer to his chest, as if to shield himself from Boris’s ire. "You don't need to be here, you know. I can run the calculations on my own, and then you'll start making the calls first thing in the morning."

"And where else would I go?" 

“To the hotel? I’ll leave all the data on your table before I clock out.”

That’s not unreasonable, when you put it like that, but also utterly, blatantly impossible. There's nowhere else he'd rather be. At least here he’s in control. At least here he’s not alone. At least here he can step between Valera and whatever genius decides that the scientist isn’t worth listening to.

With a sigh, he pulls out his pack. "I say we share."

Knocking the cigarette out of the pack, he rips off half the filter. Valera throws him a box of matches, and he catches it automatically.

"Well," he says, raising the cigarette as if he were saluting Valera with a glass, "your health."

He savors the burn in the back of his throat, making one of the last lungfuls of smoke for the night count. When he passes the cigarette to Valera, their fingers touch on the shortened filter.

Valera closes his eyes when he takes a drag, his face turning wistful. "Reminds me of school, you know, when we would sneak out and learn to smoke. None of us knew how to inhale smoke properly."

"Well, don't hog the goods." Another brush of fingers, and then the filter still wet from Valera’s mouth touches his lips. "Reminds me of the war. We never had enough smokes, so we shared, and then this guy looks out of the trench, and the sniper blows half his head right off."

"God, I'm sorry."

"Well, we go through his possessions, you know, for pictures to send his ma and whatnot, and what do you know? The bastard had three full packs of cigs. Never shared, never even offered. Don’t know what was wrong with him."

“That’s still horrible.”

And here it goes again, this problem of Valera’s, his ridiculous heart, his stubborn habit of caring too much. That must happen to guys who haven’t been through the war, Boris figures. He shrugs. "Well, that's gonna teach you not to stick out. You know what they say in trams? Don't stick your head out." He stands up to pass Valera the cigarette, then reaches further and musses his sweaty hair. "Words to live by."

"Yes, words to live by," Valera says, and angrily crushes the cigarette in the ashtray, although there was still a good drag left.


End file.
